


The World in Our Arms

by bananahannah



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Hadestown, Love, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananahannah/pseuds/bananahannah
Summary: She wishes she could remember. He aches to forget. Eurydice and Orpheus are shells of their former selves. What will it take to learn their song again? An old friend? A train? Springtime?Perhaps there is no choice but to write a new song – together.
Relationships: Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown), Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is the first fanfic I have ever (posted) and I am very excited to share it with the world! I absolutely love this musical, and while the ending is so very beautiful, poetic and meaningful (We love you Anais!), in these hard and crazy times (and just in general), I think I just really needed a happy ending. I hope you'll join me on this crazy journey (it feels as though it is going to be a long one) - there will be new greek gods and myths (yay), angst, fluff, romance and maybe some political intrigue (oooh) ... (We will see). Enjoy!

# Prologue

_The gates of hell are open night and day;  
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:  
But to return, and view the cheerful skies,  
In this the task and mighty labor lies  
\- Virgil, The Aeneid ___

__

__If nothing else remember this, little songbird - the descent into hell is easy._ _

__It was almost too ironic; the way those words seemed to brand themselves against her memory as she felt herself slip away. It was an old piece of advice - about choosing to ‘split the cookie between your siblings’ or ‘always being honest’ (or something of that persuasion)- given to her by…was it her mother? Her father? She couldn’t remember._ _

__She couldn’t even remember their face, or the sound of their voice, or even how it felt to be held by them. It had been so long since she had lost them - many years had passed since she had forced that heartache down to reside only in the deepest parts of her mind. All that remained was that loving nickname, our little songbird._ _

__No one had called her that until he did – the man at the railroad station. Hades. How had he known?_ _

__She was losing it all now._ _

__The ground rattled with a large grown and she felt herself begin to descend. The world spun around her in a spectacle of soft grey blue skies and the yellow sun. She forced her eyes to lock onto the only solid thing before her. A boy. A boy with brown eyes widened in… shock. Disbelief. Pain._ _

__Who was he?_ _

__His arms were outstretched, frozen. His face becoming smaller and smaller as she faded away._ _

__Why was he watching her? Why was he here?_ _

__Orpheus._ _

__She clung onto his name._ _

__They had been so close, hadn’t they? So close to having everything. Had he heard her, and simply chosen not to listen? Or had she been silenced to his ear?_ _

__Oh, to have had the world just as you imagined right at your fingertips, only for it to disappear in an instant._ _

__The darkness engulfed her, and his brown eyes were gone._ _

__Orpheus. Orpheus. Orpheus._ _

__She chanted his name. They could take everything from her… absolutely anything they wanted… but not this. Not him.  
Her limbs ached, as though they were suddenly filled with led – responding, perhaps instinctively, to the smell of ash and sweat that met her nose. She could hear the pounding of blood against stone, the crisp ping of an axe._ _

__Then the bright red sky of Hadestown opened up around her._ _

__Her face crumpled, her legs giving out underneath her. She tried to conjure Orpheus – hair, lips, nose…anything. But all that she could recall was an echo of a song…was it for her?_ _

__She didn’t know._ _

__Whoever it was…her mother, her father, Orpheus …whoever it was that had invented the idea that the descent into hell was easy…they had no idea._ _

__It was a soul shattering, gut wrenching pain. It was drowning in a sea of despair, where dreams never survived, and nightmares thrived._ _

__It was losing love._ _

__It was losing Orpheus._ _


	2. Springtime's Wakeup Call

#  Springtime’s Wakeup Call

#  (or) 

#  A Broken Poet

_That’s what I’m working on…  
A song so beautiful  
It brings the world back into tune  
Back into time  
and all the flowers will bloom…  
When you become my wife.  
\- Orpheus. ___

__Persephone eyed the drink with a cautious glance, the red wine taunting her with what she could’ve sworn was a vicious wink. It had been almost six months since she’d felt the silk slide of bitter liquid down her throat - a harrowing, exhausting six months that, she wouldn’t lie, had tainted what was usually her favourite time of year._ _

__But she had made a promise._ _

__Not to anyone verbally, of course. Indeed, Persephone was a lovely lady, but she was also a thoughtful one. One that wasn’t stupid enough to hold herself to anybody else’s standard, one that would never give a single soul the opportunity to look at her and be able to say, ‘I know you failed’._ _

__No. No one had, or ever would have, that kind of power over her._ _

__But all the same, Persephone had made a promise to herself and it was one that she had all intentions of keeping. So, she hissed at that glass of wine left on the beaten and broken table, as if it could be scared off by such a thing, (yet know that, if it had been animated the wine most certainly would have scurried off in a fright) and walked on deeper into the bar._ _

__Persephone often questioned why this bar, out of all the forgotten restaurants and poor clubs in this bleak and grey town, was where everybody always seemed to be. The question didn’t stem from the bar lacking in anyway, – it was a niche sort of place; wooden and cramped and intimate – with low ceilings and warm lighting that seemed to wrap you up in a crushing embrace, smile and croon ‘welcome back’. No, the question stemmed from the bar’s proximity to the station - and to the steaming black train that stood idle there, waiting._ _

__It was almost as though the bar stood in reckless defiance, baiting the station with it’s… well what else could it be called but it’s… aliveness. The members of the band whistled with delight as she waltzed on pass, and Persephone offered a soft caress of a warm breeze as means of a response. She watched as a violin was raised to the sky, a chord struck, and the crowd cheered. At the sight of her, many seemed to simply evaporate from their seats, gravitating towards the excited bartender. He knew that when he looked under the bar the barrels would be full, and the food in the kitchen would be plentiful. Simply waiting where it had not been moments before._ _

__‘I hope she’s brought that fancy cheese’  
‘That’ll be two…no make that three for me - thank you!’  
Persephone watched the faces of men and women alike light up with delight. Those who waited in line started to dance, to tap their feet – just as they had the night before, and the night before that._ _

__Yes, this bar was nothing short of alive. Perhaps that is why Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, loved it so much._ _

__‘Hello again, dear’, a smooth raspy voice spoke behind her. She could hear it’s smile._ _

__‘Hermes’ she chimed, taking his arm and pulling him in close._ _

__Hermes was a break of fresh air in his shining silver suit and feather decked boots – he always had been. A reminder, how very non subtle it was, of her life down below. A splash of grey that didn’t make her heart sink. An embrace of what life was, but also what it could be._ _

__The sentiment caused an image to flash across her mind, but it had already faded away by the time she tried to notice it._ _

__Hermes took a few steps backwards, bringing Persephone out onto the open floor. Another cheer. A round of clapping. He stepped ever so slightly to the right, and suddenly they were swaying. The two Gods never once out of time with the soulful music as they spun and jumped amongst the people._ _

__Persephone took a glance at her old friend as they gave into the music. She frowned as she noticed the how the lines on his face had deepened, the hollows of his cheek sunken. Hermes smiled at her, as if in acknowledgement of what he knew she saw, and even the smile was small.  
Not forced – when it came to Hermes he was never anything short of real – but the gesture lacked the very essence of the man she had known so long. _ _

__They slowed, a guitar in the distance plucking a high-strung note, signalling the end of the song._ _

__‘It’s almost time’ Hermes murmured._ _

__‘I know’ Persephone answered, though it hadn’t been a question. It was all she could think about these days; all that was left was a mere few weeks and then back down she would go. Back to her husband, her love. To the underworld, her hate. Yet the idea filled her with anticipation and excitement, the usual dread lying dormant in her mind._ _

__For this time, everything would be different. If nothing else, this time she would be sober, and he would be willing. If they both kept to their promises._ _

__‘And yet’, Persephone continued, , ‘it’s been over five months Hermes, five months and I have hardly seen –’_ _

__Hermes raised his hand; a gesture of silence Persephone would hardly tolerate for any other person. But with Hermes she allowed, for he had been the very beacon in her darkness, the light that had accompanied her on every dreary train ride, every sleepless journey, back down to the underworld._ _

__‘You know where I’ve been’ he said._ _

__‘The boy’ Persephone stated simply. Hermes nodded._ _

__‘How is he?’_ _

__Upon that question Hermes looked at Persephone in a way he had never looked at her before. A glare speckled with anger and hatred, his nostrils flared, his voice icy; ‘How do you think?’  
Of course, Persephone knew what the boy had done. How he, Orpheus, had sentenced his love - the feisty and rough Eurydice - to a lifetime of service to the underworld. All with one fateful glance. _ _

__‘I hardly think that should be directed at me, Hermes’ Persephone flipped a long tangle of curls over her shoulder, taking a flask from between her breasts and bringing it to her lips. She was met with only water – dreadful, awful and plain water. She sighed._ _

__As Persephone went to return the flask beneath her bodice, Hermes hands moved from the small of her back to around her wrist. He pulled her around other dancing couples to a haltering stop just at the beginning (or end – whichever way one was to look at it) of the dance floor._ _

__‘I know you Persephone, and I am, well to say the least I am surprised, because I never took you for a doormat’. Hermes simply stated the fact, as if known to all, the ice in his voice gone._ _

__Persephone wheeled, ‘I am not –’_ _

__‘To stand complacent to your husband’s will, to turn your face to the ache of a boy who is responsible for mending your –’_ _

__‘Nothing is mended yet, Hermes, you know that.’_ _

__‘Then who will be responsible for mending your marriage, for mending the world.’_ _

__‘I don’t know what you would like me to do’ Persephone growled, ‘He made the deal. He knew what was at stake’._ _

__Persephone thought she could make out a frown on Hermes face, but she wasn’t sure. He shrugged as he began to do the buttons of his coat. ‘I don’t know Seph…’ the god murmured, ‘I don’t know’._ _

__Within a blink of Persephone’s eye, he turned and was gone._ _

__Just what was Hermes implying? That she was at fault? What she had said was true – if the boy had waited another mere moment, if he had simply trusted that Eurydice would follow… The boy was a fool. Did he not know that her husband would never walk back on a deal – never had, in the entire lifetime she had known and loved him? Better yet, what use had come from checking what was behind him?_ _

__Nothing. Absolutely nothing._ _

__She pulled out a stool from beneath the bar and sat, her legs crossed, as she ordered a soda from the bartender. Her gave a laugh, making sure she hadn’t meant something else. Rather than retaliate with a snap, as was custom of Persephone these days, she barely gave the bartender a second glance._ _

__For something else had caught her eye._ _

__A boy hunched over a table in the far back corner, his hair long and shading his face. But beneath the matted and unbrushed hair were his eyes. Orpheus’ eyes, brown and cold and…_ _

__Dead._ _

__He clutched a drink in his hand, his clothes unkept and unclean (but then again from the moment she first saw him, first heard his music, they had always been). Perhaps what was most startling about the sight of him however, was his guitar, his lyre, broken in two and leant against the back door. The neck was snapped, the strings curled around shards of chipped wood.  
‘He doesn’t really move from over there, if you were wondering’ The bartender scoffed. ‘I’ve been told not to touch him, so I leave him be…’ He trailed off, almost as though he was expecting Persephone to be astonished at such a disservice. _ _

__Persephone didn’t know what this feeling was, but her chest burned in places she didn’t know existed, making it almost impossible to breathe. This was the poet, the musician who had moved the world. He had moved Hades, of all immovable, stone hearted people, towards love! Surely by now, she had thought, he would’ve found love again._ _

__But he wasn’t singing anymore._ _

__Was it her fault? Could she have done more?_ _

__‘Actually’ Persephone managed to grit out, ‘I’ll have something, anything – on the rocks.’_ _

__And she waited, anxious for the moment she could forget. Forget and wipe this scene from her memory._ _


	3. The Devil Wears Pinstripes

# The Devil Wears Pinstripes

# (or)

# Echoes of a Love Song 

_The agony is exquisite, is it not?  
A broken heart. You think you will die,  
but you just keep living.   
Day after day, after terrible day. _  
\- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

The pickaxe fell with a jarring crash, the collision causing the hard stone beneath to crack. Eurydice bent to pick up the exposed brick and throw it into the wheel burrow. The gesture was weak, however, missing by several feet. She sighed. Turning around, she drew the pickaxe again. Specks of dust and soot flew into Eurydice’s eyes as she wiped the back of her hand on her forehead, a heavy layer of sweat dripped from the gesture. It was always so hot down in the mines – no matter if you were near the boilers or over the way at the factory plant, Hadestown was a scorching pit of never-ending flame.

Quite literally. 

She wasn’t one for the heat either. The air was sticky and humid, and she could feel the sweat covering the entirety of her body. Even her short black hair – cropped as it was – found ways to stick to the back of her neck. It was horrible and to put it plainly, quite disgusting. Eurydice often swore that she could almost call the heat her most hated thing about Hadestown. 

Almost.

She knew long ago she had once yearned for nothing but warmth. She knew this as the most potent images in her mind were that of shivering in the wind…pulling her thin cloak as tight as she could around her frame…her stomach rumbling…the trees whistling.

Eurydice tried to search for more; a marker of her life up above. Oh, what she would do to see what colour the sky was on top (for no one knew, though guesses abound), a picture of a trinket, a piece of clothing, a person…

She let go of that thought before the yearning could overtake her. It was that question that always tried to etch its way in, but she never let it stay. To let such a dangerous thought fester and breed would only lead her into darker despair.

Did anybody miss her? Was there anybody up above who even knew her name?

Her hand slipped on the handle of the pickaxe; she was so tired, and it was so heavy. There was nothing to do but cringe as the tool landed on the floor, the sound reverberating like thunder throughout the small, dense tunnel. 

Heads wearily spun towards Eurydice. They all had the same hopeless and vacant expression on their faces. Is that what she looked like? Yet there was a tiny sliver of excitement, perhaps at the prospect of something different; the routine breaking in some way – even if it was minute.

She felt the Warden behind her even before she saw them. They were all the same; large and tall – their backs straight and their eyes bright. Not in an optimistic sense of the word, but more in the sense that they were awake. They were eyes that remembered.

What she would do to have those eyes. To remember something. Anything. 

But there were rumours of what it took to become a Warden. One of Hades watchdogs. One of the guards of this god-forsaken place. Eurydice had once wondered what else could there be, other than selling your soul? What more could one possibly give?

Some of the rumours claim that the Wardens give their absolute unwavering loyalty to Hades. Proven in their choice, thousands of years ago, to follow Hades from Mount Olympus after his failed coup against Zeus. Their reward for doing so? Power - absolute dominion over others – and to never have to endure hard labour again. 

Others claim that they are mortals, mortals who have been here longer than the years spent above on Earth. The pain amounted so great that they chose to drink from the Lethe, the river of oblivion – and have forgotten not just their life up above, but the very essence of their being. They have lost the ability to love. To feel sorrow. To choose. 

And as desperate as Eurydice was to remember, to know who she was before, there was no question that that was not an option. 

‘Pick it up’ a high pitched, snake like voice demanded. The Warden was a woman, with beautiful bronzed skin and pitch-black eyes. She smiled with her teeth, her lips popping on the end of the word. Whether a god-like being or old mortal, the Wardens were terrifying. The whip she held at arm’s length in her hand, even more so. 

It was automatic, the way Eurydice bent down, picked up her axe, and threw it behind her head. Weakling, Eurydice scoffed at herself. She was one, usually, to stand in defiance. To talk back. Scream and kick and throw up a fuss as thought it might change something. But today, it just didn’t feel worth it. No matter how hard the work was, how heavy the axe became, or even how much her very bones ached – she just couldn’t. Not today. 

But then again, she didn’t know what any of this was worth, not really. And she never knew if today would ever really end. 

___

‘The music is too loud’. 

Orpheus smiled a ghost of a smile – he never thought those words would ever cross his lips. 

But they did. The music was deep and full, bellowing throughout the bar with enough vigour to rock the ground beneath. He could feel the vibrations moving throughout his chest. But rather than energise him, - uplift his whole body into the rhythm and feel of the steady drums and the high stringed guitar - all it did was remind him how empty he felt. All it took was a single chord to almost knock the wind out of him. 

‘Nonsense’ Hermes stated firmly, grabbing hold of Orpheus’ arm before he could turn, as he always tried to, out the door.

It had become part of the routine, much to Orpheus’ dislike, to come here every night after nightfall. Many years ago, Hermes had seen Orpheus – poor and skinny and orphaned – and taken him under his wing. He had always been there, looking out for him, inspiring Orpheus to truly pursue his music – but now Hermes seemed to have taken his self-appointed role a little too seriously. This was just end of a well-structured day that Hermes was forcing Orpheus to implement. 

‘Hermes, please –’

‘Tonight, is the night, boy. The band has agreed to let you play. They don’t have a lyre, but I think –’

‘No’. Orpheus pulled his arm back, hard. He couldn’t sing. Couldn’t play. It was too much. The whole world might have finally been brought back into tune, but he was an untuned, broken string. 

The God of messages pulled his silver suit back into position, a grim look across his face. ‘My boy…eventually you will have to play again’.

All Orpheus could do was shake his head. His heart was still, not even pounding. All his eyes saw was grey and more grey. All the colour and movement in the world was gone. Completely gone without her.

A tear slipped down his cheek. It was torture, absolute torment, but the only time he ever felt a skerrick of anything was when he brought the image of her to his mind. Soft lips and hard eyes that brightened at the sight of him. Dark hair that caressed the sides of her face with a wisp and twirl.

‘Hermes, I-I don’t think music is for me anymore’ Orpheus said quietly. He watched as Hermes face fell. It wasn’t a look of pity, more of an understanding, but a sad one at that. Perhaps he had known all along. 

Hermes grabbed Orpheus by the shoulders, ‘it’s okay, Orpheus. It’s okay.’ But it wasn’t, and the embrace that followed only cemented that fact even more. ‘When – or if you are ever ready, the music will be there to welcome you home’.

He gestured towards the bar, of course – they would go in anyway. Hermes pushed Orpheus, had been forcing him to wake up, eat, wash – every day. But there was a line. And Hermes was careful to never cross that line. Orpheus was grateful for that.

Orpheus nodded, ‘I just need a minute’, and Hermes entered the bar with a nod in return. He was alone.

The music will be there to welcome you home.

But music wasn’t his home. Perhaps it had been, once. But how could home be such an intangible thing such as that, something that came from himself, when the very reflection of himself in the mirror brought him nothing but disgust? No – home was her. It had always been her, from the second he saw her. It was why he was willing to go to hell and back for her, to be with her – forever – wherever that may be. 

It was why he looked back. 

He almost wanted to punch himself for the thought. To scream and cry and scream again. It was all because of him. He hadn’t trusted. Hadn’t believed. Now he would never be home again. 

He stepped onto the soft grass and sat. Every day now seemed like an endless cycle of self-pity. Hermes had tried to help him move on, but he didn’t deserve to move on. Not when he had condemned her to a lifetime of misery. 

He had taken everything away from her. 

Orpheus felt a something soft underneath his hand. When he saw the flash of red, he felt his heart move for the first time in almost six months. Beat. Beat. Skip a beat.

It was a red carnation. 

He looked around, but there was no one. No one who could share in his amazement. How? It hadn’t been there when he sat down, he would’ve noticed that of all things.

Wouldn’t he?

He held the carnation close to his chest. Eurydice, I love you. 

Orpheus knew if he stayed too long Hermes would come and find him. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep the red carnation to himself. There was no use in sharing it – however it had gotten there, it didn’t mean anything. 

She was gone, forever. He was to blame. The only place where he could find home now was this bar – the place they had met and sung together. The place they had promised each other everything. 

Orpheus didn’t care that it hurt. He deserved that, of all things. The reminder of her was worth it, it was the only way. He stuffed the carnation in his pocket, his heart sinking further and further down. Soon, it would be still again, and he would be right back where he started.

Hermes waved him over instantly. They sat in the back corner, as always. Enough to hear everything and see what was going on, but just far enough to not be included in the main action. 

‘I ordered our usual’ Hermes said as Orpheus pulled out a chair. 

Orpheus blushed, ‘You didn’t have – you know I can’t pay –’

Hermes waved him off in silence. They had the same conversation, every night. Either Hermes was paid handsomely for the messages he delivered, or when you were a God, mere things like money didn’t bother you. It frustrated Orpheus all the same.

The hot chocolate was warm when it touched his slips, the marshmallows powdery and sweet. It was, perhaps, the only time in the entirety of the day when he allowed himself to enjoy something. 

Hermes began to talk about plans for the next day; a road trip uptown to some local tournament, where a young woman named Nike was favourited to win the whole day undefeated. Orpheus nodded his head absentmindedly. He often felt like this, that even though his body was rooted to the spot, his mind wondered through the air, searching above for something. Anything.

‘Orpheus’ Hermes was tapping his hand. The man before him took a deep breath, ‘Orpheus’ he murmured, when he knew he had the boy’s attention. Orpheus thought he would go on, but he remained quiet for a while.

‘What is it?’

‘Young boy – young man, I should say – I cannot’ Hermes stopped, gathering his thoughts. ‘I cannot even begin to imagine what you have endured these past months. But – ’ He stopped again.

‘But?’

‘But’, Hermes looked Orpheus directly in the eye. There was a calm soul behind those dark eyes, perhaps one of the greatest comforts of Orpheus’ life. ‘I wonder if the time will come when you will be able to live again, or if you need to decide when that time will be’.

Orpheus felt a burning in his chest. It was subtle. Small. A dull flame of anger that had been ignited but did not have enough fuel to spread. ‘You mean, when will I decide to wake up and move on?’

‘She wouldn’t want this life for you, Orpheus.’

‘You don’t know what she would have wanted. No one ever will. Because of me’.

‘Listen to me. You can’t blame –’

‘Can’t blame myself’ Orpheus interjected. That small ember had lightened up his whole body, an inconsolable anger coursing through his veins now. ‘You’ve said that. Almost every day since. But I should. And I do.’

‘You suffer worse than her, I believe.’

The boy’s heart plummeted. What fire the broken poet had possessed but for a moment went out. For his still and empty heart – he felt it fall right through the floor, and there was nothing pumping anything through him anymore. ‘You’ve…you have seen her?’

The God shook his head. ‘There have been no trains, my boy. You know this.’

It was several moments before Hermes spoke again: ‘You cannot help her, like this, Orpheus. You cannot save –’ 

‘Don’t do that’ Orpheus’ tone was ice.

‘Do what?’

‘Give me hope. Give me any belief that anything can be done. When we both know there is not’. He thought of a still and silent train line – tracks that he had tried to follow but only directed him in a circle. A wall whose stones were now immune to his song, unmovable by a tune or a note or a chord.

He felt Hermes truly grab his hands this time. ‘You forget what you have done. What you have achieved. You have walked to hell and back, relatively unscathed. You have brought the devil to tears. You have spoken to him…seen him. No one, no mortal but you, knows what he looks like.’

Orpheus smiled - well, a fraction of one. ‘And he really does wear pinstripes.’

‘You never believed me.’ Hermes teased.

‘No’ Orpheus agreed. ‘I didn’t.’


End file.
